Categories > Books > Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy > Control
"'I might have mentioned him in passing'?"
Arthur cracked one eye open. The view of Fenchurch, dark hair falling over her pale face, was pleasing enough that he decided it merited stereo. He opened the other eye. He enjoyed the view for a minute before realizing that she was waiting for something.
"Urg?" he asked.
"Ford," she replied.
Arthur sat up and propped himself against the headboard, rubbing his eyes. "What about Ford?"
Fenchurch leaned back on her elbow. "You said you might have mentioned him in passing. You did. He doesn't act like someone you would merely mention in passing."
Arthur pulled his hands away from his eyes. Fenchurch looked serious, as she normally did, and a little quizzical; not upset or accusing, however. So he told the truth.
"I felt like mentioning him in passing."
She said nothing, but every bit of body language, from her stiff upper arm to her gently uplifted eyebrows to her prickly arm hair, said "Tell me the rest."
Arthur sighed. "Do you really want me to tell you?"
Her voice said, "Only if you really feel like it, sweetheart." Her body language said, "Yes, tell me, now."
Arthur moved the blanket and swung his legs out of bed. "I'll tell you. It's a story that needs a drink."
Arthur's threadbare and dilapidated dressing gown had only become more dilapidated after a good washing; many of the otherworldly junk-food stains had actually served a structural function. But he had been through too much with it to really feel comfortable in any other dressing gown, and so he wrapped himself in it as he sat at the kitchen table. Fenchurch poked his bare skin through one of the gaping holes in the gown with a giggle, and sat down across from him with a mug of tea.
Arthur took a sip of his gin and tonic and started to tell the story over again, with more exposition on the Ford side. He talked about the time before he knew Ford was an alien, and the times they would go drinking - which was how he had spent the vast majority of his time with Ford. He talked about the few times Ford was too drunk to get to his own house, and would crash on Arthur's couch. Arthur's eyes flicked to the couch in question, which seemed to lurk in the corner and clear its throat menacingly, daring him to tell the whole story. He mentioned some of the drunken kisses they had shared on that couch, conveniently pseudo-forgotten the next day. Arthur searched Fenchurch's face at that point, but it remained as impassive and interested as it had been when he told her the edited version several weeks ago. So he continued. He filled in the details of the essential role Ford played in his rescue from the Earth, teaching him the importance of towels, and Arthur's acquisition of the Babel Fish. He had been fairly forthcoming about the Heart of Gold and Magarathea, so he skipped over that bit and continued to the quest for tea and the time of curious deadness after Zaphod disappeared.
"And this is where things got a bit strange."
He told about the canoodling he and Ford had engaged in - this time, perfectly sober. He told the story as a broad sweep...
"Give me the details," Fenchurch interrupted.
So Arthur took another gulp of his drink and gave her the details. The deep tongue-kissing, the curious taste of Ford's mouth, the feeling of his hands on Arthur's buttocks, back, chest, and groin. Some mild surprise on Arthur's part that Betelgeusian genitalia was so similar to Terran, to which Ford muttered something nonsensical about convergent evolution into Arthur's ear while doing things with his hands that made Arthur not care at all.
"Was that all?" Fenchurch asked after a pause. Arthur looked up, and noted that she did not seem upset at all; her eyes were a little wider, but her face was still impassive. She did that expression well.
"No..."
So he told her about their time on the Bistromath. About how Ford came into his room the first night, wearing nothing, waking him up by saying, "Almighty Zarquon, you would not believe how long it's been since I've had sex..." About how Ford kissed him so deeply that he thought the alien's tongue was going to exit the back of his, Arthur's, head. About how he, Ford, ground himself into Arthur's groin while stroking him on every part of his, Arthur's, body that Ford could reach, too hard to be ticklish and too gently to be anything other than maddeningly sensual. About how the bottle that Ford had carried in with him, the one that Arthur had assumed, with some justification, was alcohol, was actually some kind of slick goop that Arthur didn't really need to know anything more about than that it felt rather good when Ford used it to slick his fingers and prod Arthur, and some minutes later to ease the way for his mildly surprisingly Earthlike genitalia. About how they fucked twice more, and Arthur slept the sleep of the thrice-fucked, which is a very deep sleep indeed.
"And that was all?" Fenchurch asked.
Arthur shrugged. "He wanted to tear around the galaxy, and I wanted to settle somewhere idyllic. Not really a question of that not being all." Arthur's eyes flickered towards the guestroom, where Ford could be heard relentlessly snoring. "He does tend to come back a little more often that I would expect of him, though."
He looked back to Fenchurch. Her impassive expression had not slipped an iota during the conversation. "Well..." he cleared his throat and took another sip of his drink, "does it... bother you?"
She suddenly flashed a smile that made the ice in his drink melt. "Actually, I find it rather exciting." She leaned over the table, and gave him a kiss that made his heart follow right behind the ice cubes. It took a bit of effort to go back up to bed without disengaging, but, Arthur decided, it was well worth it.
Ford continued to pretend to snore loudly behind the door that he had his ear pressed to. As they went back upstairs, he flopped back on the bed and continued to snore loudly until the noises from the master bedroom assured him that they were paying no attention to him.
Well, one thing was clear. He was going to have to keep an eye on them. One silly ape-descended female was not enough to keep his Arthur out of trouble when he went cavorting through the galaxy, and Ford was sure that Arthur's cavorting was not over yet. Satisfied, he went back to sleep.
Arthur cracked one eye open. The view of Fenchurch, dark hair falling over her pale face, was pleasing enough that he decided it merited stereo. He opened the other eye. He enjoyed the view for a minute before realizing that she was waiting for something.
"Urg?" he asked.
"Ford," she replied.
Arthur sat up and propped himself against the headboard, rubbing his eyes. "What about Ford?"
Fenchurch leaned back on her elbow. "You said you might have mentioned him in passing. You did. He doesn't act like someone you would merely mention in passing."
Arthur pulled his hands away from his eyes. Fenchurch looked serious, as she normally did, and a little quizzical; not upset or accusing, however. So he told the truth.
"I felt like mentioning him in passing."
She said nothing, but every bit of body language, from her stiff upper arm to her gently uplifted eyebrows to her prickly arm hair, said "Tell me the rest."
Arthur sighed. "Do you really want me to tell you?"
Her voice said, "Only if you really feel like it, sweetheart." Her body language said, "Yes, tell me, now."
Arthur moved the blanket and swung his legs out of bed. "I'll tell you. It's a story that needs a drink."
Arthur's threadbare and dilapidated dressing gown had only become more dilapidated after a good washing; many of the otherworldly junk-food stains had actually served a structural function. But he had been through too much with it to really feel comfortable in any other dressing gown, and so he wrapped himself in it as he sat at the kitchen table. Fenchurch poked his bare skin through one of the gaping holes in the gown with a giggle, and sat down across from him with a mug of tea.
Arthur took a sip of his gin and tonic and started to tell the story over again, with more exposition on the Ford side. He talked about the time before he knew Ford was an alien, and the times they would go drinking - which was how he had spent the vast majority of his time with Ford. He talked about the few times Ford was too drunk to get to his own house, and would crash on Arthur's couch. Arthur's eyes flicked to the couch in question, which seemed to lurk in the corner and clear its throat menacingly, daring him to tell the whole story. He mentioned some of the drunken kisses they had shared on that couch, conveniently pseudo-forgotten the next day. Arthur searched Fenchurch's face at that point, but it remained as impassive and interested as it had been when he told her the edited version several weeks ago. So he continued. He filled in the details of the essential role Ford played in his rescue from the Earth, teaching him the importance of towels, and Arthur's acquisition of the Babel Fish. He had been fairly forthcoming about the Heart of Gold and Magarathea, so he skipped over that bit and continued to the quest for tea and the time of curious deadness after Zaphod disappeared.
"And this is where things got a bit strange."
He told about the canoodling he and Ford had engaged in - this time, perfectly sober. He told the story as a broad sweep...
"Give me the details," Fenchurch interrupted.
So Arthur took another gulp of his drink and gave her the details. The deep tongue-kissing, the curious taste of Ford's mouth, the feeling of his hands on Arthur's buttocks, back, chest, and groin. Some mild surprise on Arthur's part that Betelgeusian genitalia was so similar to Terran, to which Ford muttered something nonsensical about convergent evolution into Arthur's ear while doing things with his hands that made Arthur not care at all.
"Was that all?" Fenchurch asked after a pause. Arthur looked up, and noted that she did not seem upset at all; her eyes were a little wider, but her face was still impassive. She did that expression well.
"No..."
So he told her about their time on the Bistromath. About how Ford came into his room the first night, wearing nothing, waking him up by saying, "Almighty Zarquon, you would not believe how long it's been since I've had sex..." About how Ford kissed him so deeply that he thought the alien's tongue was going to exit the back of his, Arthur's, head. About how he, Ford, ground himself into Arthur's groin while stroking him on every part of his, Arthur's, body that Ford could reach, too hard to be ticklish and too gently to be anything other than maddeningly sensual. About how the bottle that Ford had carried in with him, the one that Arthur had assumed, with some justification, was alcohol, was actually some kind of slick goop that Arthur didn't really need to know anything more about than that it felt rather good when Ford used it to slick his fingers and prod Arthur, and some minutes later to ease the way for his mildly surprisingly Earthlike genitalia. About how they fucked twice more, and Arthur slept the sleep of the thrice-fucked, which is a very deep sleep indeed.
"And that was all?" Fenchurch asked.
Arthur shrugged. "He wanted to tear around the galaxy, and I wanted to settle somewhere idyllic. Not really a question of that not being all." Arthur's eyes flickered towards the guestroom, where Ford could be heard relentlessly snoring. "He does tend to come back a little more often that I would expect of him, though."
He looked back to Fenchurch. Her impassive expression had not slipped an iota during the conversation. "Well..." he cleared his throat and took another sip of his drink, "does it... bother you?"
She suddenly flashed a smile that made the ice in his drink melt. "Actually, I find it rather exciting." She leaned over the table, and gave him a kiss that made his heart follow right behind the ice cubes. It took a bit of effort to go back up to bed without disengaging, but, Arthur decided, it was well worth it.
Ford continued to pretend to snore loudly behind the door that he had his ear pressed to. As they went back upstairs, he flopped back on the bed and continued to snore loudly until the noises from the master bedroom assured him that they were paying no attention to him.
Well, one thing was clear. He was going to have to keep an eye on them. One silly ape-descended female was not enough to keep his Arthur out of trouble when he went cavorting through the galaxy, and Ford was sure that Arthur's cavorting was not over yet. Satisfied, he went back to sleep.
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